A rush was made toward Jem, who was roaring and gesticulating at Mr. Levi's table. When they came up they found Jem black and white with rage, and Mr. Levi seated in calm indifference.
“What is it?” asked Robinson.
“The merchant refuses my gold.”
“I refuse no man's gold,” objected Levi coolly, “but this stuff is not gold.”
“Not gold-dust,” cried a miner; and they all looked with wonder at the rejected merchandise.
Mr. Levi took the dust and poured it out from one hand to the other; he separated the particles and named them by some mighty instinct.
“Brass—or-molu—gilt platinum to give it weight; this is from Birmingham, not from Australia, nor nature.”
“Such as it is it cost me thirty pounds,” cried Jem. “Keep it. I shall find him. My spade shall never go into the earth again till I'm quits with this one.”
“That is right,” roared the men, “bring him to us, and the captain shall sit in judgment again;” and the men's countenances were gloomy, for this was a new roguery and struck at the very root of gold digging.
“I'll put it down, Mr. Levi,” said Robinson, after the others had gone to their work; “here is a new dodge, Brummagem planted on us so far from home. I will pull it down with a tenpenny cord but I'll end it.”